What if love wasn’t real, but only a habit shaped by time and touch? Maybe we mistake comfort for connection, and chemistry for fate. The butterflies would just be biology, the longing a clever trick of the mind to keep us close enough to survive. Without love, poems would lose their pulse and songs their echo. Yet we would still search for someone to sit beside us at sunset. Even if love were an illusion, it would be the illusion that gives our ordinary days their glow.